The Woman Thou Gavest Me eBook

I have only an indefinite memory of floating vaguely
through the sights and sounds of the next two hours—­of
everybody except myself being wildly excited; of my
cousins railing repeatedly from unseen regions of
the house: of Aunt Bridget scolding indiscriminately;
of the dressmakers chattering without ceasing as they
fitted on my wedding dress; of their standing off
from me at intervals with cries of delight at the success
of their efforts; of the wind roaring in the chimney;
of the church-bells ringing in the distance; of the
ever-increasing moaning of the sea about St. Mary’s
Rock; and finally of the rumbling of the rubber wheels
of several carriages and the plash of horses’
hoofs on the gravel of the drive.

When the dressmakers were done with me I was wearing
an ivory satin dress, embroidered in silver, with
a coronal of myrtle and orange blossoms under the
old Limerick lace of the family veil, as well as a
string of pearls and one big diamond of the noble house
I was marrying into. I remember they said my
black hair shone with a blue lustre against the sparkling
gem, and I dare say I looked gay on the outside anyway.

At last I heard a fluttering of silk outside my room,
and a running stream of chatter going down the stairs,
followed by the banging of carriage doors, and then
my father’s deep voice, saying:

“Bride ready? Good! Time to go, I
guess.”

He alone had made no effort to dress himself up, for
he was still wearing his every-day serge and his usual
heavy boots. There was not even a flower in his
button-hole.

We did not speak very much on our way to church, but
I found a certain comfort in his big warm presence
as we sat together in the carriage with the windows
shut, for the rising storm was beginning to frighten
me.

“It will be nothing,” said my father.
“Just a puff of wind and a slant of rain maybe.”

The little church was thronged with people. Even
the galleries were full of the children from the village
school. There was a twittering overhead like
that of young birds in a tree, and as I walked up the
nave on my father’s arm I could not help but
hear over the sound of the organ the whispered words
of the people in the pews on either side of us.

“Dear heart alive, the straight like her mother
she is, bless her!”

“Goodness yes, it’s the poor misfortunate
mother come to life again.”

“Deed, but the daughter’s in luck, though.”

Lord Raa was waiting for me by the communion rail.
He looked yet more nervous than in the morning, and,
though he was trying to bear himself with his usual
composure, there was (or I thought there was) a certain
expression of fear in his face which I had never seen
before.

His friend and witness, Mr. Eastcliff, wearing a carnation
button-hole, was by his side, and his aunt, Lady Margaret,
carrying a sheaf of beautiful white flowers, was standing
near.

My own witnesses and bridesmaids, Betsy Beauty and
Nessy MacLeod, in large hats, with soaring black feathers,
were behind me. I could hear the rustle of their
rose-coloured skirts and the indistinct buzz of their
whispered conversation, as well as the more audible
reproofs of Aunt Bridget, who in a crinkly black silk
dress and a bonnet like a half moon, was telling them
to be silent and to look placid.